Reunion
by Joodiff
Summary: When Frankie sees a news story on the front page of the paper she knows it's time to face an old friend... Set almost immediately after S5 "Black Run". T for language. B/F. Complete. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing

_**A/N:**_ This fic ignores canon added by the 2018 WtD radio prequel "The Unforgiven". It's set almost immediately after S5 "Black Run".

_For Stargate-Lover-Steph... and anyone else brave enough to give some B/F a go. Enjoy! x_

* * *

**Reunion**

by Joodiff

* * *

**ONE**

"Thanks, Spence," Frankie Wharton says, as the heavy glazed door's electronic lock surrenders to the swift swipe of his access card. She spares him a brief, tired smile. "I owe you a drink."

"You do," he agrees, pulling the door open for her with one hand and returning his card to his jacket pocket with the other. His expression is solemn, and it doesn't change as he continues, "You absolutely sure about this, Frankie?"

In reality, she's far from sure that her current course of action is a sensible one, but she offers a slight shrug in response. "Guess so. I've come this far."

"He wasn't exactly Mr Happy when I left," Spencer warns her, a frown furrowing his brow. "The DAC hauled him over the coals at the Yard this morning, and Sheryl Palliser's brief is raising merry hell about the circumstances of Vine's death. You sure you don't want to leave it a few days?"

"No," Frankie says, stepping towards the door he's still holding open for her, "but if I spend any more time thinking about it…"

"Okay," he says, emulating her dismissive shrug, "but don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't," she assures him. "'Night, Spence. Thanks again."

"No problem," he tells her, releasing his hold on the door. He starts to turn away, then hesitates. Sounding uncertain, he says, "Most Fridays we go to the White Hart for a quick pint after work. It's… well, it's quieter than The Bull. Why don't you drop by sometime?"

Frankie thinks she knows what he can't quite bring himself to say. Just a street and a half away, The Bull used to be the team's regular haunt. Doubtless it still is for most of the other officers and staff who work in the large, ugly police-owned building, but not for the Cold Case Unit. Not anymore. Not since… Mel. Too many memories. She nods, acknowledging the invitation even though she has no intention of ever taking him up on it. "Okay. Thanks."

"No problem," he says, gives her a last long, searching look, then adds, "well, see you around sometime, Frankie. Good luck."

"Thanks," she murmurs, and starts along the utilitarian corridor she remembers so well. Opaque windows on one side that allow some natural light to filter in, and the low, interior windows that look down into the CCU's lair on the other. Closed horizontal blinds obscure the view into Boyd's office, but she can see that there is a light on beyond them. Boyd, it seems, is exactly where Spencer said he was – still working alone in his office despite the increasing lateness of the hour. Some things, she supposes, never really change.

Descending the concrete steps, Frankie's aware that her heart has started to pound in her chest in a heavy, disturbing rhythm that's difficult to ignore. So familiar, this place, this route, and yet suddenly so alien, too. She can see straight into the heart of the shadowy squad room now, and so little is different that for a moment she feels as if she has stepped back over a year in time. The central block of desks has been subtly rearranged, she notices, and she can guess why. Looking at Mel's empty chair day after day…

Most of the overhead fluorescent lights are switched off. Grace's office is in complete darkness. The whole area is still and quiet, with none of the background hum of noise that she remembers so well. No footsteps, no phones ringing, no steady murmur of voices. The big Perspex evidence board stands brooding in the deep shadows where it always did, covered this evening with a complicated mosaic of photographs, pictures and writing. Boyd's distinctive sweeping capital letters, Spencer's less exuberant scrawl. Another hand she doesn't recognise, smaller and neater. Stella, she assumes. Stella… Goodman, is it? Yes. Mel's… replacement.

Boyd's office door is ajar, but most of the other internal blinds are also shut against curious eyes. There used to be countless ribald jokes about what he used to get up to in there, sequestered away alone behind his blinds, late at night. Light-footed, Frankie approaches the door with cautious unease. What had seemed like a good idea in the abstract now feels like a ridiculous flight of fantasy, a whim she should never have decided to act upon.

Too late now. She's past the point when she could have allowed herself to retreat without losing face. Closing her right hand into a loose fist, she taps lightly on the open door's glass upper panel.

The response is an immediate, weary, "Yeah?"

_Get it done, Frankie,_ she tells herself, and steps forward. Boyd is seated behind his desk, jacket off, pen in hand, his attention entirely on the paperwork strewn out before him. He doesn't look very different, and again she is struck by a sense that she has stepped back in time. Quiet but determined, she offers, "Hi."

His head snaps up instantly, his expression briefly frozen in a blank look of total surprise. Shock, even. "Frankie."

"Boyd." Her voice sounds calmer and steadier than she expected, and that's… good.

He places his pen down with a controlled precision that tells her just how shocked he is, fumbles off his glasses, and stares across the space between them, the look on his face suggesting that he can't quite believe the evidence of his own eyes. Aside from the healing abrasion to his left temple, he really hasn't changed much, she reflects again, but then it's only been a shade over a year. He clears his throat, the sound loud and rough in the silence. "Um…"

"I saw your picture in the paper," Frankie says by way of explanation. An unexpected shock, it had been, too, as she sat down to enjoy a quick cup of coffee and saw that familiar face on the front page of someone else's paper. The stark headline "Hit and Run Cop", bold and accusing beside a small colour photograph of Boyd with his head well down. Before he can say a word, she holds up a forestalling hand. "It's all right, I got all the gory details from Spencer. I know you didn't do it. Never thought for a minute that you did. Drink driving and then leaving the scene of an accident's just not your style."

"GHB," he says, still staring at her in a mixture of shock and disbelief. "Ga – "

"Gamma-Hydroxybutyrate, one of the so-called date rape drugs," she interrupts, stepping further into his office. "Yeah, I know, he told me."

Boyd blinks, a little like a man waking from a deep sleep. "Frankie."

Another cautious step, and then another. She stops maybe eighteen inches away from the front of his desk. "It's stupid, I know, but I guess… Well, I guess I wanted to see for myself that you were okay."

Belatedly, he gets to his feet, displaying that strange, characteristic mixture of grace and clumsiness she remembers so well. The dark eyes remain fixed on her. "Pride got a bit dented, that's all, really."

Frankie gestures towards his temple. "And the kick in the head?"

He frowns. "Someone really _has_ been telling tales out of school, haven't they?"

"I asked, he told me," she says with a shrug. "It's not every day you find out your ex-boss is up in court for drink-driving."

"No," Boyd says, something in his voice hardening. "No, I suppose not."

She understands. Of course she does. _Ex-boss_. She wonders how else he might have expected her to describe him. As far as she knows there's no polite, convenient way to say, 'the guy I slept with a few times on a casual basis before something really, really bad happened and everything changed overnight'. She feels herself swallow hard, a completely involuntary action. Hates herself for the suggestion of weakness it might imply. Too abrupt, she says, "Well… as long as you're all right…"

"I am," he agrees, still safe behind his desk. He looks wary, uncertain, and maybe a touch defiant, too.

"Good," Frankie says, too aware of just how inane it must sound. She was right – coming here was a mistake. Seeing _him_ again was a mistake. They didn't part on good enough terms for it to be anything else. She remembers – vividly – how angry he was when she told him she couldn't stay, when she tendered her resignation and walked away from everything that hurt far too much. When she… ran away.

Mel.

_He_ stayed. They all did. She was the only… coward.

It was more than that, though. More than cowardice. Wasn't it?

"Frankie," he says again, then shakes his head.

Being away has given her the time, the courage, to at least attempt to face it. _All_ of it. Her palms are sweaty as she says, "Please don't hate me, Boyd."

"Hate you?" He couldn't look more nonplussed. "I couldn't hate you if I tried."

They'd been on the cusp of something. Something that might have been, or have become, important. Not quite there, perhaps, but close; very close. And then… Mel. Mel, dead on the concrete, blue eyes open, her blood a crimson flower that had bloomed around her. A young life snatched away in a cruel, stupid instant. Alive, then dead. Just like that.

Frankie swallows hard. "I'm sorry."

It's finally enough to goad Boyd into movement, and he circles the desk, each hesitant step a cold stab of fear somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach. He stops just far away enough to underscore how far apart they are, but close enough for her to be forced to look up to maintain eye contact. Always so much taller than her. A big, solid man, tough enough to deal every day with the dead, and yet compassionate enough to care about every terrible story they had to tell. He looks down at her, puzzled and intense, and says, "You didn't have to go."

It's not quite an accusation, but it stings all the same. Defensive, she retorts, "Oh, I did. I really did."

"You ran," he says, and this time it _is_ an accusation, "from Mel's death, from the team. From _me_."

_Please don't run away, Frankie,_ that's what Grace had said, but instead of listening, instead of accepting the help the older woman was more than qualified to give, she'd done it anyway. Back in the present, the tears she'd sworn to herself not to shed start to brim, stinging her eyes. Quickly Frankie tries to blink them away, not wanting to be so openly, appallingly vulnerable before him, but it's too late. The first tear escapes, sliding down her cheek, betraying her. She tries to turn away, but Boyd is faster. Faster and more impulsive, and against every rule she made for herself about this meeting, as he takes hold of her, she is grateful. Burned by memory and emotion, she buries her face into the dry warmth of his shirt, and she cries.

-oOo-

The slow burn of the whisky reminds her of the not too-distant past, too. Late nights, when it was just him and her left in their part of the building, long after everyone else had gone home. Ridiculous, wandering conversations about nothing that had so often ended in helpless laughter. The bottle of Glenfiddich in his desk drawer and the wry, amused affection in his dark eyes as she'd sat impudently on the edge of his desk, glass in hand, and wondered what would happen if she… if he… if _they_…

"Better?" he asks in the new world, the one after Mel.

Frankie manages a small, tight nod. "Yeah. Thanks."

Boyd doesn't look convinced. He's sitting next to her, but she can feel the cold, empty space between them. Looking down at the floor, he says, "I'm sorry."

"For…?" she inquires.

He shrugs, the movement briefly pulling his mauve shirt tight across his broad shoulders. "All of it, I suppose. I should have done more… tried harder."

"To make me stay?" Frankie guesses. She mimics his shrug. "It wouldn't have done any good, Boyd. I did what I thought I had to do. You couldn't have stopped me."

"Perhaps not, but maybe I'd feel a bit better about myself now if I knew I'd at least tried."

Guilt, she thinks. He feels guilty, just like Grace had told her he would. For Mel's death, for her departure. For all of it, that stupid, fucked-up mess that tore the heart out of all them in different ways. Her. Boyd. Grace. Spencer. The people left behind. She stares into the depths of her glass, wondering if she's brave enough to pose the painful question she's fretted over for months. Deciding that she is, that she has nothing left to lose, she asks, "Why didn't you go to her funeral?"

The sharp, shallow intake of breath is audible, but it's several long, tense seconds before Boyd replies, "The truth? Just couldn't face it. Couldn't bear to look into her parents' eyes and tell them how sorry I was."

Frankie nods. "Thought it was something like that."

Silence falls between them again, uneasy but not hostile. Aeons pass in the space of a few heartbeats. Out of nowhere he asks, "How did you get into the building?"

"Spence," she says, and finishes the last drain of whisky left in the bottom of her glass.

"Ah."

She dares to look at him then, finds him gazing back at her, his expression unreadable. More to fill the renewed silence than anything else, she announces, "I'm working for Hartmann Pharmaceuticals now, at their lab in Ealing. Moved back to London two months ago."

Boyd frowns. "Last I heard, you were in Edinburgh."

"Grace?"

"Who else?"

Frankie shrugs again. "Turns out the academic life isn't really for me. Research for research's sake is interesting, but…"

"…not terribly exciting?" he suggests.

"Something like that. I was a biochemist originally, long before I got side-tracked into forensics, you know that. Guess going to Hartmann was… returning to my roots. I'm heading up a brand-new development project. Prestigious. Lots of funding."

Boyd studies her with every bit of the shrewd intensity she remembers. "So that's it for police work, is it?"

"I thought it was, but now I don't know," she tells him honestly. "Maybe, maybe not. Why, you offering me a job?"

"Would you take it if I was?" he asks.

Fighting the urge to swallow hard, Frankie shakes her head. "No."

"Thought not," he says, looking away. He sighs, the sound heavy and regretful. There's thin, forced humour in the way he adds, "There's no vacancy anyway. Doctor Gibson has a year-long Home Office contract signed in blood. Mine."

"I know Felicity," she says, nodding. "Well, I know _of_ her, anyway. She's good."

The answer is quick. Too quick, maybe. "She's not _you_."

For a moment Frankie can see just how close to the surface his pain is. The pain of loss after loss, each fresh hurt compounding the one before. His son, Mel… her. This time she does swallow, forcing down the constricting lump in her throat. She can't hold his gaze, has to look away. There are no words. None.

He stands up so abruptly it startles her, strides back towards his desk. His words are clipped as he says, "I'll call the front desk. Ask someone to come and show you out."

_He_ runs, too. No, that's not quite true. Boyd doesn't run, he simply turns his back on the things he can't deal with. Turns his back and tries to pretend he is inviolable, untouchable. Something, some strong emotion Frankie can't – won't – identify, races through her bringing a flood of adrenaline with it. Fight or flight. She's angry and she's not. Not thinking, she stands and voices a raw, dangerous plea: "Pete…"

His head snaps round and he glares straight at her. "Don't."

_Pete_. It was usually Pete in the small hours of the morning. Rarely Boyd, and never Peter. An impudent intimacy she'd claimed for herself on the very first night despite his growling displeasure, perhaps in some subconscious attempt to separate the man in her bed from the man she'd spent the better part of four years working for. Refusing to flinch under the accusing weight of his stare, she says, "I'm sorry, too, you know. Hurting you… was unintentional."

"'Unintentional'?" Boyd raps back, hard and fast. "Oh, that's good, Frankie. Even for _you_, that's good."

"Well, what do you expect me to say?" she demands, her own fury beginning to catch up with his. "That when I was hurting so much that just dragging myself out of bed – let alone coming back to this damned place day after day – was almost bloody impossible, my first thought every morning was about protecting _you_?"

"Of course _not_," he bites at her, "but don't pretend you didn't know…"

She raises her eyebrows at the way he lets the sentence trail away to nothing. "Didn't know _what_, Boyd? That the guy who was intermittently screwing me – when it bloody suited _him_ – would actually give a damn about whatever it was I eventually decided I had to do?"

"Don't," he says again, more wounded than angry. "_Don't_, Frankie."

"I'm _sorry_, all right?" she all-but shouts at him. "Oh, what's the bloody point? I _knew_ coming here was a big mistake."

She makes it to the foot of the concrete steps before he stops her. Wild, Frankie fights against his grip, but she's never going to win. He was always physically far, far stronger than her, and it doesn't matter how hard she struggles and swears, Boyd simply imprisons her against the long planes of his body and waits in stubborn, implacable silence for the violent, angry storm to pass.

-oOo-

"Just get in the damn car," he orders, and it's quite clear that the very last threads of his patience, always a rare commodity in strictly limited supply, are drawing very thin indeed. "Frankie."

"Why?" she demands, still burning with resentment. "I'm quite capable of getting on the bloody Tube, you know. I've been managing it perfectly well for _years_."

"Get. In. The. Car." Boyd is still holding the passenger door open and even Frankie, who's never been easily intimidated by anyone, almost – _almost_ – quails at the sheer force of the irritable scowl being directed at her. She glowers back but finally surrenders without grace to the inevitable and gets into the car. He slams the door with unnecessary force behind her and walks round the front of the bonnet. Another silver Lexus, she reflects. Not the same one, thank God, but a slightly newer model. Close enough to the original to cause a faint sense of nausea to roil in the pit of her stomach. A flash of memory only intensifies the unpleasant sensation. Mel's blood and… brain matter… obscenely splattered across the broken windscreen of Boyd's car.

He gets into the driver's seat next to her. "Well? Where to?"

"Same place," she tells him, adding a grudging, "I rented it out while I was in Scotland. Bloody good thing, too, the way property prices are still rocketing down here."

"Mm," Boyd says, starting the engine. It's clear he's not in a talkative mood, and that's just fine by Frankie. She feels tired, emotionally wrung-out, and not at all in the mood for another bruising exchange of harsh words. Let him give her a lift home if he really must. It won't mean a damn thing in the grand scheme of things.

She stares out of the passenger window at the uninviting, rain-soaked evening, not focusing on anything. When they are forced to stop at the first set of red traffic lights to impede them, Boyd asks, "So… is there someone else?"

It's a reasonable question, Frankie supposes. Under the circumstances. Still gazing out at the night, she says, "No."

"Okay."

It strikes her as an odd response until she really thinks about it. Neither of them was entirely sure where they were with each other _then_, let alone _now_. Colleagues that became sort-of-friends, sort-of-friends that became sort-of-lovers. Same dark sense of humour, same… singularity. Two people who have always marched very much to the sound of their own drums. She can't – doesn't want to – deny that there was physical attraction there, too. Attraction and flirtation, carefully contained… until it wasn't. The car starts to move again, and she risks, "You?"

The answering snort is derisive. "What do _you_ think?"

_She_ thinks he's a good-looking, charismatic, occasionally deeply-charming older man who still manages to turn female heads wherever he goes. There's more to him than that, though, and Frankie knows it better than most. For all his apparent unshakable self-assurance, behind the brash façade there's a quieter, shyer side to his nature, and though it's no secret to anyone that he likes women – _really_ likes them – he's more circumspect in his liaisons than the rumours that perpetually dog his heels might suggest. Accordingly, she shifts her gaze to the road ahead and echoes him with, "Okay."

Boyd gives her a sharp sideways look, as if suspecting ridicule, but doesn't say a single thing.

None of it would have happened, she supposes now with the benefit of hindsight, if they hadn't all gone to The Bull on that fateful Friday night to celebrate their liberation from Bulmer and his team. That long, alcohol-fuelled evening had been the catalyst, the eventful night that followed it the turning point. The next morning's head-pounding sobriety had been awkward, to say the least, but they'd crossed a line in the hours preceding it that had drawn them back together the following week, and several times thereafter. The regrets had been few and far-between… then.

And now? Frankie doesn't know. Heaven help her, she really doesn't know.

They've reached Ladbroke Grove now, and Boyd turns the car left into Harrow Road without comment. Kensal Green Cemetery stretches out on their left, and then they turn right and quickly pass the illuminated sign of the Tube station where she would have ordinarily alighted. Moments from home, Frankie says, "If Mel… if none of that had happened… do you think it could have worked? Us, I mean?"

Again, Boyd glances sideways, more contemplative this time. "Who knows? The odds weren't exactly stacked in our favour, were they, Frankie?"

"No," she agrees, rueful now. "No, they weren't. Guess I had a narrow escape. Sleeping with the boss is rarely a good idea."

"I'm not your boss anymore," Boyd points out, his tone hardening. "You took care of that very effectively."

A renewed flicker of anger makes her thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her quilted jacket and say, "If you expect me to beg you for forgiveness, Boyd, you're going to have a bloody long wait. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but I'm not going to apologise for doing what I thought was the right thing at the time."

One hand briefly leaves the steering wheel to make a quick, placatory gesture. "All right, all right. Point taken."

"The way I see it," Frankie says, as the turning into her street approaches on their left, "we have a choice. We _both_ agree to let go of the past and move on, or we don't. One way we get to stay friends, the other… Well, you know."

"_Are_ we still friends?" he asks, flicking on the indicator.

Frowning, she turns her head to look at him. In the evening shadows his striking profile looks more hawkish than ever. Nodding, she says, "Yeah, I'd like to think so. I know it's been a while, but…"

Boyd makes the turn, cruises past the terraced houses that break at the small scruffy park that forms a strange triangle halfway along the road and brings the car to a smooth stop outside the first of the half dozen four-storey post-war blocks that occupy the north end of the street. Handbrake on, engine off. He says, "'Best let bygones be bygones', that's what my auntie used to say."

"Wise woman, your auntie," Frankie says, remembering some of the things he'd told her about the redoubtable woman who'd brought him up. "How is she, by the way?"

"Still in Provence living it up with her motley collection of elderly gentlemen admirers. There goes my meagre inheritance."

It's a mistake, no question, but she looks at him again and asks, "So… you coming in, then, or what?"

-oOo-

_Cont…_


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

Frankie's big top-floor flat hasn't changed very much, Boyd realises the moment they step through the front door and she switches the lights on. Same clean, minimalist décor, same matching pair of big black leather sofas set at right-angles to each other. Same sense that the flat's owner isn't home a lot and doesn't make much mess when she is. The massive free-standing bookcase loaded with books and files and papers that divides the kitchen and dining area away from the rest of the open-plan space still lists faintly to one side, offending his sensibilities. He remembers vowing to himself to fix it. Didn't happen. Mel died, and everything went to shit. He never came here again, not after that terrible day. The big black and white rug positioned under the glass-topped coffee table is new. He scowls at it, not able to easily accept the change.

"Coffee," Frankie inquires, dropping her jacket and bag onto the nearest of the sofas, "or something stronger?"

Once Boyd would have asked her if he was staying the night before giving her an answer. Now, he only says, "Coffee."

"'Please'," she prompts, heavy on the sarcasm. "Your manners haven't improved, have they?"

"I don't remember you being interested in me for my manners." It's a dangerous, stupid thing to say, and he knows it. What's the point, though, of attempting to completely deny the past? Of trying to pretend none of it ever happened?

The quick look she gives him in exchange is reflective. "True."

He can remember exactly how the body-warmed leather of the sofa nearest the almost floor-to-ceiling windows felt against his bare back, how vulnerable and almost ethereal she looked naked and illuminated just by the elegant modern standard lamp beside the bookcase. It hurts far more than it should. Striding towards the windows, he says, "Black – "

" – no sugar," Frankie finishes. "Yeah, I remember."

The view from the flat, such as it is, hasn't changed either. No reason why it should have done. In some places the London skyline is ever-changing, but not in quiet residential areas like this one. Not really. The rain is hammering down hard now, fulfilling the dire prophesies of the weather-forecasters. Ordinarily it would take him forty-five minutes or so to drive home from here. Tonight, in the bad weather, Boyd thinks it might take him an hour or more.

From the kitchen area beyond the bookcase, Frankie's voice calls, "So, what was it like?"

Frowning, he turns his back on the window, on the rain, on the looming edge of depression. He has no clue what she's talking about. "Eh?"

"GHB," she elucidates. "What did it feel like?"

"Oh." Boyd shakes his head, still unable to piece enough of the fuzzy fragments of memory together to form a clear picture. "Dunno, really. I can tell you what it felt like afterwards – like I had the mother of all hangovers. I still don't remember too much about that night. Just jumbled bits and pieces."

"That's what makes it so effective as a date rape drug. Did she attempt to have her evil way with you?"

"No, she bloody _didn't_," he retorts, walking round the bookcase and propping himself against the wall to watch Frankie as she finishes making coffee for them both. Her hair is a little longer than it was, but otherwise she hasn't changed very much. Outwardly, at least. Outrage subsiding, he amends, "Pretty sure she didn't, anyway. She had another agenda entirely."

Another quick glance. "How's the motorcyclist you hit?"

Instantly defensive, he growls, "_I_ didn't hit her, _Sheryl_ did."

Frankie rolls her eyes. "I was using 'you' in its plural sense. Well? How is she?"

Mollified, Boyd shrugs. "Recovering, thank God. I mean, she'll be in hospital for a while yet, but the doctors say she should be fine."

Not looking at him, she says, "Spence feels guilty, you know. For not believing in you the way Grace did."

"So he bloody should," Boyd grumbles, the subject still a sore point. "I may not be the most popular unit commander in the Met, but I thought the people who actually work for me knew me better."

"We do," Frankie tells him, picking up both coffee mugs from the granite-topped counter. "_Did_. Whatever. You know Spence, he's got such a big chip on his shoulder that it's easy for him to see the worst in people, and I say that as someone who actually _likes_ the man."

"Mm." Not wanting to talk about any of it anymore, Boyd pushes himself away from the wall and ambles towards her to take the steaming mug she is now holding out to him. "So, you know Felix, eh?"

Frankie smirks, amusement clear in her eyes. "_Felicity_, you mean? No, I know _of_ her, like I said before. She specialised in forensic limnology for a while. Diatoms, that sort of thing."

"Water stuff."

"Yes," Frankie agrees, pushing past him to return to the main living area, "'water stuff'."

He follows, trailing behind her and half-watching the unconscious sway of her slim hips. Wretched woman always did look far too damned good in the scruffy jeans she invariably wore to work against every rule about acceptable dress code he cared to make. "Well, why didn't you just bloody say so? Why does every single specialist I know take great delight in using ridiculously long words?"

"'Limnology' is not a ridiculously long word, Boyd. Three syllables." She settles on the sofa, kicks off her flat-soled shoes and pulls her feet up. For a moment she looks so ridiculously young that he's cast back half a decade or more in time. Over the rim of her coffee mug she adds, "I've heard she's a bit of a cold fish."

Electing to settle well out of harm's way on the _other_ sofa, Boyd shrugs again, partly disinterested and partly aware he's not really qualified to make an accurate judgement. "She gets the job done."

Frankie's searching gaze is amused again. "I'd say that was unusually diplomatic of you, only I know it probably means you just haven't paid any attention at all to the way she's settled into the team."

He takes the gibe, knows it's not intended to wound or offend. Just Frankie being Frankie. Sometimes sharp, often hilariously blunt. Sparky. Funny. Idiosyncratic in her own way. Not afraid to say exactly what she thinks. To _anyone_. Looking straight at her, he dares to finally admit, "I've missed you, Frankie."

"Careful, Boyd," she warns, batting the words away, "that's heading dangerously close to sentimentality."

It's as difficult for her to hear as it is for him to say, he realises. He sips his coffee, then says, "Yeah, well. Maybe I'm going soft in my old age."

She laughs at that, her dark eyes sparkling. "_You_? Yeah, right."

Beautiful eyes. He noticed that very early on. Brown, like his, but richer. More chestnut, less green. He can remember – vividly – the first time he saw her. A half-drowned little waif almost up to her knees in mud at one of the coldest, bleakest, wettest crime scenes it had ever been his misfortune to attend, before or since. She'd looked almost too young to be there, the startling dark eyes looking huge in the pinched, chilled face. It had taken him roughly thirty-eight seconds to discover that despite her youth and relative inexperience Doctor Frances Wharton had a sharp tongue, a will of iron, and a very good grasp of basic Anglo-Saxon. Less than eighteen months later he'd offered her a job with what was to become the CCU.

"Hello?" she says from the other sofa. "Earth to Boyd?"

"Sorry," he murmurs. He offers a slight, pained smile. "I was thinking."

"Don't strain yourself," she advises. "What about?"

"You."

He sees the barriers rise. "Me?"

"You," he confirms, "and that headless corpse at Carlton – "

" – Wharf." Frankie relaxes again. "Yeah, now _that_ was a rough job. There was mud everywhere, it never stopped raining, and he stank to high heaven."

"He did," Boyd agrees, and has another mouthful of coffee. It's safer than continuing to talk. By far.

"You gave me a lift back to the nick, and your bloody dog drooled down the back of my neck all the way there."

"_Mary's_ dog," he corrects. "Heston."

Frankie nods. "That's right. Huge great hairy thing. Probably more than half Irish Wolfhound."

A sharp stab of memory causes him to offer a slight, melancholic smile in reply. "We originally got him for Luke, thought having a puppy might be good for him, but he decided he was Mary's dog. I can't even remember why he was with me that day – we'd been separated for over a year by then."

"What happened to him?" she asks, apparently genuinely curious.

"Old age," Boyd says, thinking of the big, shaggy grey creature in question. They'd had a love-hate relationship from the start, but he'd shed a private tear or two digging the massive hole the elderly dog's interment had required. "He's buried in my back garden. Mary wanted him at the house in case… well, you know."

"Luke ever found his way home," Frankie guesses.

"Yeah." The old, hollow pain flares, and he blocks it with a ruthless expertise honed over far too many long years. He leans forward, places his half-empty mug on the glass coffee table, changes the subject with, "How's your mother?"

Frankie grimaces. "As irritating and querulous as ever. Didn't want me to go to Scotland, then told me I was making a huge mistake when I came back again. Same old, same old. _'When are you going to find someone nice and settle down? When are you going to make me a grandmother? Clock's ticking, you know…'_. No wonder my wretched brother and his wife buggered off to Portugal."

Smirking might not be the most tactful response, but Boyd does it anyway. They only met the once, but he remembers Caroline Wharton and her cold, disapproving stare. Perfectly. "Well, at least she's stopped lecturing you about the iniquities of shagging older men."

The answering look couldn't be more derisive. "You think, do you? I still get periodic admonishments about 'that dreadful man you met at work'."

"Sorry about that."

"Yeah, I bet you bloody are." Frankie shakes her head. "Never mind that dad was twelve years older than _her_."

"'Do as I say, not do as I do', Frankie," he tells her.

"Ain't that the truth." She looks at him for a few thoughtful moments, then says, "This feels a bit like old times, doesn't it?"

"No," Boyd says, before he can stop himself. At the quizzical look she gives him, he sighs. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as the old saying goes. "You're over there, I'm over here."

She holds his gaze without any sign of fear. "I didn't say you couldn't sit next to me."

"You didn't say I could, either."

"Oh, God, you're in one of _those_ moods."

He frowns. "What moods?"

"Pedantic," is her prompt response. "Difficult. Just plain cussed, if you like. You're looking good, by the way."

"Thanks."

"No," she says, suddenly all mock-patience, "that's where you're supposed to say, 'so are you'."

He groans. Can't help it. "Frankie…"

"Oh, come _on_," she says with a snort, as if she knows exactly what he wants to say but can't. "We were never much good at the elegant seduction thing, were we? Either of us. You're here, I'm here. Pretty sure you still fancy me, and it turns out that for some inexplicable reason I still fancy you. So… we can spend the whole night talking about nothing if you want, or we can cut the crap and – "

"Frankie," Boyd says again, and stops. He has no idea what to say, how to react to the unexpected turn the conversation has abruptly taken.

"Still here."

He clears his throat, wrestles with the awkwardness of the moment, then mentally steels himself to say, "Tempting though the idea is, I'm not jumping into bed with you just for old times' sake."

"Doesn't have to be the bed," she tells him, "as I recall, the sofa worked quite well."

"Fra – "

"I'm teasing you," she interrupts with another eyeroll, "and I'm not talking about a quick roll in the hay for old times' sake, idiot. I'm talking about the hypothetical possibility of you and me maybe giving it another go. Seeing what happens if we don't have all the pressure of having to work together making things bloody difficult."

He stares at her, trying to make sense of the words. "Wait, did you just proposition me?"

"Well, only sort of. I didn't exactly tell you to get your kit off, lie down and think of England." She shrugs. "Of course, if you're not interested…"

"I'm interested," Boyd says, the words out before he has any chance to think about them. "Oh, I'm interested, but…"

"But…?" Frankie says, her chin lifting a tiny, defiant fraction. Again, she looks frighteningly young even though he knows she's now the wrong side of her mid-thirties. Young, and improbably vulnerable.

With unusual care, he says, "It didn't exactly work out well before, did it?"

"No," she admits, the flippant, bantering note gone from her voice. "No, it didn't. But we both know the reason for that."

They can't ignore the damned great elephant in the room forever, he supposes. Might as well be him who says the heart-breaking name aloud. "Mel."

"Yes." Frankie sighs, stares down at her coffee mug. "Maybe if we'd been a… well, a _proper_ couple… maybe then we could have actually helped each other through it instead of running off in opposite directions to try to deal with our pain on our own. Maybe if we'd had the balls to sit down and actually talk to each other… I don't know."

"I was so proud of her, Frankie," he says, the quiet words coming slow and hard from some deep, secret place inside him. "So fucking proud of her. She was a whisker away from being shoved back into uniform when I took her on. Insubordination, failure to obey orders… you name it, she had a black mark against it on her personnel file. There was a time no-one thought she'd manage to stay a copper, much less make sergeant."

Frankie nods, the raw pain clear in her expression. "I know. She used to drive you nuts, didn't she? Answering back, going off to do her own thing… Christ, there were times we all thought you were either going to have a bloody heart attack or sling her out of the unit on her arse."

"Came close to both on more than one occasion," Boyd admits. He's silent for a few seconds before he continues, "She would've eventually outstripped Spence, you know. _Easily_ outstripped him. A few more years and… Well, it doesn't matter now."

"I thought it was you," Frankie says a moment later, looking down at her mug again. There's a long pause before she continues, "When Spence came into the lab to tell me, I saw the look on his face and I honestly thought it was _you_ who'd been hurt. When he said it was Mel… it was like the whole world stopped, you know? Just for a moment. It wasn't real. Then… it was."

Boyd gets to his feet, not sure what he intends. Instinct drives him to the other sofa. He settles gracelessly, setting a small, deliberate distance between them. "I've been a copper for almost thirty years, and I've seen a lot of people die. Stabbings, car accidents, suicides… all kinds of terrible things, but I've never seen anything quite as horrific as… as that. Jesus, when she hit the car, I…" He can't finish the sentence. Thinks Frankie's probably glad. "It broke us, didn't it? All of us. In different ways."

Frankie's gaze flicks briefly to him, then slides away again. "She knew, you know. About us."

He frowns. "What?"

She nods, meets his eye. "Yep. Oh, don't look at me like that, _I_ didn't bloody tell her."

"How…?"

"Dunno." Silence, then, "I think maybe she saw us, one night outside in the car park. It's the only thing I can think of. She knew, though. No question."

"Christ…" Boyd mutters, pondering all the possible ramifications had things been different.

"She wouldn't have said anything to anyone," Frankie says, as if reading his thoughts, "besides, she was enjoying the secret far too much to share."

"You're _sure_ she knew?"

"Yeah. Quite sure, trust me."

He can't help scowling. "Well, _fuck_."

"Quite." Frankie treats him to an impish if weary grin. "Pretty sure she didn't think we were going home in the same car together to enjoy a sedate game of Scrabble, or something."

Those eyes… Oh, Jesus, those eyes… Just when he thought everything was okay, that he could keep a tight rein on the past and move into the future with his calm resolve not to get re-entangled intact… Boyd swallows hard, looks away without risking a single word. One small hand lands on his knee, and though the pressure is light he knows she feels him jump. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft as she says, "All I'm trying to say is, Pete… well, I suppose that we were robbed. Robbed of any chance of find out if we could… you know."

"Could ever be that 'proper couple'?" he suggests, echoing her earlier words. "Well, maybe we were, but even if things had been different and we'd had the chance, it wouldn't have worked, would it? Not in _that_ way, not then. _Couldn't_ have worked, not while we were still both part of the same operational unit."

"And now?" she inquires. "Now that we're just two people who happen to like each other?"

"Now… I don't know." It's not a good answer, Boyd knows, but it _is_ an honest one.

The response is calm. "Okay."

No histrionics. Not her way. Not at _all_. Just like him, Frankie has a temper, but there's something almost… masculine… about its character. The fast eruption, the blazing fury, the lack of resentment afterwards – Boyd recognises and understands them all. When she's upset Frankie does not sulk, she storms, just like he does. It shouldn't surprise him that she's watching him with almost analytical coolness. No acrimony, no anger. Just… acceptance. It unsettles him, makes him clear his throat and look away. When she doesn't offer any further words he says, "If it's just revisiting the past…"

The small hand on his knee withdraws. "It's not worth doing?"

He scratches at his beard, mostly unaware of doing so. "Twenty years ago, that wouldn't have crossed my mind."

"Ah ha," Frankie says, her tone knowing but not unkind, "I get it. You're struggling with the idea that it could ever be about more than just sex. You and me."

"It's not that," he protests, but he has a dawning suspicion that she's right, that she understands his sudden confusing reluctance better than _he_ does. Suppressing the urge to groan, he adds, "Well, okay. Maybe."

"Why?"

"Well I don't bloody know, do I?" he growls irritably. "You tell me. You're the expert, all of a sudden."

"Go home," she says suddenly and without any hostility. "Sleep on it. Give me a call in a couple of days. If you want to."

"Frankie…"

She shakes her head. "No, I mean it. I'm not interested in trying to persuade you, Boyd. Either you want to try again, or you don't. If you do… well, you know where I am. Just don't leave it too long, hm? It's not an open-ended offer."

-oOo-

"Well?" Grace demands, some fifteen hours later. "Are you going to tell me what's on your mind, or shall I just resign myself to staring out of the window in silence for the next hour?"

Concentrating on choosing the right lane to escape the coastal town behind them in more-or-less the right direction, Boyd merely grunts. He's bone-tired from a bad combination of days of stress, a long, emotionally-draining evening, and an appallingly bad night's sleep, and after a pointless journey to interview a witness who remembers nothing about a former neighbour from fifteen years ago, he's more bad-tempered than she deserves. He's thinking about too many things to form a neutral, unconfrontational answer, so he stays silent.

"I'm assuming," she continues after several further moments, "that your reticence has something to do with last night's unexpected visitor? Spence told me."

_Bloody_ Spencer. Glowering, Boyd slows the car for the roundabout ahead and mutters, "Let's just stick to talking about the Cunningham case, shall we?"

"Oh, it went that well, did it? Poor Frankie."

"Never mind poor-bloody-Frankie," he growls, glaring at the oncoming traffic to his right, "talk to me about Sheila."

"What do you want me to say?" Grace inquires, with a serenity that grates on his nerves. "Do I think she's lying about not remembering Davis? No. Do I think there's any point in following up on what she said about the neighbours on the other side? Yes. The rest is up to you. You're the detective, not me."

"Oh, you do recognise that occasionally, do you?" he says, choosing a gap in the traffic and accelerating hard towards it. It's not quite bad driving, but it comes close.

"You really _are_ in a bad mood today, aren't you?" Conversational, slightly sardonic. More impatient, she continues, "Come on, Boyd, out with it. What exactly happened last night?"

"Nothing I want to talk about," he tells her, taking the exit signposted for London, "and just for _once_ it would be really helpful if you took that on board."

She lapses into offended silence leaving him with his muddled thoughts. Every time he tries to put Frankie out of his mind and concentrate fully on work, something from the previous night's conversation comes back to him, crowding in on all the things he should be giving his full attention to. It's the reason he didn't sleep well, the reason he was back at his desk at just a little after six that morning.

Next to him, Grace finally asks, "How long have we know each other?"

He doesn't need to think about it. "Eleven or twelve years, give or take."

"And for most of that time, we've been friends." A deliberate pause. "Haven't we?"

Boyd sighs. He knows her far too well to believe she's going to give up, no matter how much he growls at her. They can have the discussion she wants to have, or they can have a blazing row, it seems. He doesn't think he's got the strength and endurance for the latter, not today. Not bothering to hide his irritation, he says, "Go on, then. Get to the bloody point."

"Frankie," Grace responds immediately. "Specifically, _you_ and Frankie. And don't bother trying to pull the wool over my eyes, I know damn well _something_ was going on between you before she left."

Was there _anyone_ on the team, he wonders, who didn't somehow know, or at least strongly suspect? So much for trying to be discreet. He grunts, hunches a shoulder in a dismissive half-shrug. "Why ask me, then?"

"I'm _not_ asking you," Grace says, and out of the corner of his eye he can see her gazing at him. "I wasn't born yesterday, Boyd, I can fill in the gaps for myself."

"Good for you," he mutters. It's going to be a _long_ drive back to headquarters, no doubt about that.

"What I _am_ asking you," she continues, dogged to the last, "is what happened last night?"

"And if," he retorts, "we assume for a moment that you _are_ right in your assumptions, that rather begs the question, what the bloody hell has it got to do with you?"

"Nothing," is her placid reply. "Nothing at all, except that you're my friend and quite plainly _something's_ got under your skin today."

They've always been able to talk about things beyond work, Boyd reflects. Within certain boundaries, of course. They know all about each other's failed marriages, about at least some of their individual regrets and mistakes. It's not in his nature to open up easily about his private life but whenever he has, she's been supportive and non-judgemental. And trustworthy. Overtaking a small blue family car labouring in the inside lane, he says, "She asked me if I was interested in trying again."

Grace doesn't sound surprised or flustered. "I see."

He shoots her a quick, suspicious glance. "'I see'? That's the best you can do?"

"No, I can do much better. But do you want me to?"

This time he simply glowers at the road ahead. "You're an exasperating bloody woman, Grace, have I ever told you that?"

"Once or twice over the years," she says, amusement clear in her voice.

"Go on, then," he says with fatalistic reluctance, "give me both barrels."

"I'm not going to ask you if you loved her," Grace says after a suitable pause, "but based on the evidence of my own eyes I'm going to assume you felt _something_ for her. I'm also going to go out on a limb and assume that when she left and went to Edinburgh it hurt a lot more than you expected it to."

"Get to the damned point, will you?" he grumbles, pulling back into the inside lane behind a foreign-registered Mercedes with a dented rear wing. Despite her strenuous denials, he's not at all sure that she's not bloody clairvoyant. She certainly seems to read _his_ thoughts easily enough. Sometimes.

"I don't really need to, do I? It seems like a fairly straightforward situation to me – you were together and then you weren't, and – "

"We weren't 'together'," he interrupts, not sure why it matters so much to him that she knows the truth, "not in the way you mean. Those last few weeks before Mel… before Mel died… yeah, we crossed a few lines, slept together a few times, but it wasn't more serious than that."

"But would it have been?" Grace presses. "If things had been different, I mean?"

"I don't know," he replies, trying to both answer and avoid the question.

She's not fooled. "Oh, come _on_…"

"I'm serious," Boyd tells her, realising that he is. "Yeah, we liked each other – no bloody secret there, it seems. We got along. The se… the physical side of it, was good. But…"

Thank God she does not call him on his hasty substitution of words. "But…?"

Irritable, he casts her another sharp look. "But I was her bloody _boss_, for God's sake. Sooner or later, if we'd got deeper in, there would have been a serious conflict of interests."

"Why are you worrying about hypothetical things that didn't happen?" Grace inquires, her tone mild.

Irritation claws at him. "I'm not. _You_ asked the fucking question."

"You're not her boss now," she points out, as if it might somehow have escaped his notice. "It seems to me that you're over-complicating things, Boyd. Do you want to try again, or don't you?"

"Christ," he mutters, losing patience with the Mercedes and pulling out into the middle lane again to overtake it. "I'm not pursuing this conversation any further with you, Grace."

He expects her to continue anyway, but instead she goes back to looking out of the passenger window. The sudden silence starts to pluck at his nerves, and he's on the verge of breaking when she says, "In some ways you're very alike, you know. You and Frankie."

It's not news to Boyd. "Mm."

"Pretty girl."

He nearly winces. "She's hardly a girl, Grace. She's thirty-six, for fuck's sake."

"When you get to my age," she replies serenely, "everyone under forty is a girl."

He pounces on the statement with malicious enjoyment. "_Everyone_?"

Grace sighs with unnecessary volume. "You know what I mean. Don't be deliberately awkward. Every _female_."

"Is that a post-menopausal thing, or…?"

The look she gives him is magnificently icy. Even out of just the corner of his eye Boyd can see that. "Remind me, were you fifty-four or fifty-five back in July?"

Boyd scowls and doesn't deign to answer. Every time he looks in the damned mirror he's surprised. Wasn't it only yesterday he was a keen, determined young detective constable with limitless drive, energy, and ambition?

"Oh, I see," Grace says, the words sudden and obscure. "Of course. Now it all makes perfect sense. This isn't about Frankie at all, is it? It's about you, and your ongoing midlife crisis."

Stung, he snaps, "I've told you before, I am _not_ having a midlife crisis."

"How's your model aeroplane?" she inquires.

"Shut up, Grace."

She doesn't. "It's the age thing, isn't it? When it was just a bit of illicit fun that you could pretend to yourself meant absolutely nothing, it didn't matter, but now she's offered you the chance to try and build something real you – "

"It's not 'the age thing', as you so delicately put it," Boyd interrupts with just a touch too much force. Ignoring the look she gives him in return, he says, "And even if it _was_ – "

"Ha."

" – don't you think completely ignoring any concerns I might have in that direction would be a mistake?"

"No," she says, surprising him. "For heaven's sake, Boyd, this is _Frankie_ we're talking about. When did she ever care about convention, about what other people thought? She _likes_ you – heaven only knows why – isn't that enough? Or are you really going to sit there and tell me that the feeling isn't mutual?"

"No," Boyd mutters, "of course bloody not."

Grace nods. "Good, because I always know when you're lying. You get that shifty, guilty schoolboy look."

"Oh, I do not," he objects.

"Yes," she tells him, "yes, you do. Oh, look, just make your mind up, will you? You want her, or you don't. It really is _that_ simple."

-oOo-

_Cont…_


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

"Doctor Wharton," a pleasant female voice says in her ear seconds after she takes the telephone receiver being held out to her by Hillier, one of the junior lab technicians assigned to her project, "I know it's late, but I have a gentleman in reception for you."

Startled, Frankie blinks, then frowns. "Eh?"

"A police officer," the well-modulated voice informs her. "He says – "

To her annoyance her pulse quickens as she interrupts, "Tall? Well-dressed? Looks as if he might have been a prop forward back in the day?"

"Yes," the receptionist confirms, "that's him. Detective Superintendent Boyd. Do you want to send someone down, or…?"

Glancing at her watch and realising it's heading for half-past five, Frankie says, "No, I'll come down myself. Ask him to wait, will you? I'll be about ten minutes."

"Of course, Doctor." There's a soft click and the line goes dead. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, Frankie glances round the big, brightly-lit laboratory. Several lab-coated technicians are diligently at work cleaning equipment, entering data at terminals and doing all the other important, mundane tasks that are required at the end of each and every working day. Her immediate junior, Doctor Paul Wrigley, is still at his desk, writing out notes in longhand. She doubts he will leave the building before mid-evening. Nothing and no-one to go home to. Almost grimacing at the parallel, she heads over to him, stripping off latex gloves and dumping them in the appropriate disposal bin as she goes.

"Frankie," he says, looking up as she approaches, "look at this. I think I might be onto something."

Glancing at neat lines of complicated equations and chemical formulas, she says, "Do you mind if I take a look in the morning? Old friend of mine's just turned up out of the blue, and he's waiting for me down in reception."

"Huh?" Wrigley shakes his head. "Oh. Okay. No, that's fine. Go on. I'll shut everything down here before I leave."

"Thanks, Paul," she says, preparing to move away, "I owe you one."

He looks faintly wistful as he says, "You can buy me a drink sometime, if you like. 'Night, Frankie."

He likes her, Frankie thinks as she leaves the main laboratory, removes her lab coat in the vestibule beyond, and goes to collect her things from her office. Likes her in _that_ way but has thus far failed to summon enough courage to do anything about it. Too professional, she wonders, or just not confident enough? Either way, it's irrelevant. Even if there wasn't… someone else… lurking on the horizon, Wrigley is not her type. Not at _all_.

She likes the wild ones. That's what her mother always used to say, her hectoring tone somewhere between disapproval and despair, and it's not an accusation Frankie has ever really been in any position to deny. There was David when she was in her mid-teens and still at secondary school, followed by Gary and then by Mark, the latter turbulent relationship lasting well into her first term at university. Bad boys all, in their own different ways. By the time she'd announced her sudden and controversial decision to remain in Cyprus with Andreas, virtually every conversation with her mother had included some doleful variation of _'Heaven knows what your father would have said…'_.

Shrugging into her jacket as she heads for the lift, Frankie shakes her head to herself. John Wharton, pharmacist, talent amateur painter and dedicated fisherman, had died three months before her sixth birthday. Inoperable brain tumour. She remembers him as a big, jovial man, always cheerful, always willing to set aside whatever he was doing to pay her attention. His features are blurred in her mind now, and she can't quite remember what his voice sounded like. Only that it had seemed, to her as a little girl, very, very deep. The few photographs she has of him seem to become less and less real to her with every passing year. She was named, she knows, after his mother, Frances Anne Wharton, who outlived her only child by more than nine years before succumbing to pneumonia one particularly bad winter.

_Daddy issues_, that's what Will had accusingly said five or six years ago, not long before they split for the final time. _You need to deal with your daddy issues, Frankie, or you'll end up on your bloody own…_

It's rubbish. Of _course_ it is. Armchair psychology at best. She's not looking for a father-figure, just for someone who…

_Gets me_.

Standing in the lift with three people she doesn't know, Frankie concentrates on her breathing. Slow and deep. In, out; in, out. Controlled, calming.

Peter Boyd. He's got something to say, no doubt about that. What that something might _be_, she's less sure.

Unlike Wrigley, he _is_ her type. Fierce, quick-tempered, endlessly curious. Wears his heart on his sleeve, just like her. Funny when he wants to be. Completely fearless, not easily brought to heel. Lots of uncharted depths to explore, lots of hidden twists and turns to his character. Complex, eccentric, and infuriating. Stubborn. Rock steady when he needs to be.

Wild.

…Though perhaps not quite as wild as he once was, if half the rumours that had frequently circulated around the unit about some of his exploits as a much younger officer had possessed any grain of truth.

The lift comes to a gentle stop and its doors slide open, revealing the large, ultra-modern reception area that welcomes staff and visitors alike to the West London headquarters of the research and development arm of Hartmann Pharmaceuticals, a large and rapidly-expanding multinational with a burgeoning portfolio. Something about the high ceiling, the big cream sofas and the ridiculously long stretches of glass and chrome always makes Frankie feel like a very small cog in a very big machine. Which, she supposes, is exactly what she is.

Boyd is standing by the sleek white reception desk, chatting idly to the receptionist. _Flirting_ idly with her, Frankie amends with an inward scowl, knowing exactly what he's like. He flirts because he _can_, because he's an attractive man, and it's easy. There's hardly ever any real intent behind it. He sees her before she's within twenty feet of him, says something to the receptionist with a final dazzling smile, then turns away and ambles towards her. A brown paper bag, of the heavy-duty type with small handles attached, swings nonchalantly from his left hand, and as the distance between them closes, Frankie eyes it with increasing suspicion.

"Hi," she says, realising as she does so that she greeted him in the same fashion a little under twenty-four hours previously. Originality, it seems, is not her strong point.

"Hi," Boyd replies, proving that it isn't his, either. They look at each other for a couple of seconds too long before he lifts the bag slightly and says, "I got you this."

Definitely not flowers. Good. "Oh, right."

"Might be a peace offering," he says, holding it out to her, "but I'm not quite sure. Gave up trying to decide."

The weight of the bag informs her of the contents long before she peers into it to confirm her suspicions. "Pinot noir."

"They were all out of White Lightning."

"Fuck off, Boyd," she tells him, but she appreciates the humour nonetheless. Cheap, high-strength cider, the students' friend. She's drunk worse. When she realises he's leaning in towards her, she stretches up on her tiptoes, allows him to brush a light, whiskery kiss against her cheek. Her heart seems to be beating fast and very loudly in her chest.

She's about to speak when a confident, American-accented male voice behind her says, "Ah, Frances. I thought it was you. Are you going to introduce me to your… friend?"

"Martin," she says, turning towards the slim, besuited middle-aged man walking up to them. "Um, this is Peter Boyd, my – "

" – partner," the man concerned supplies with breath-taking audacity. He holds out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr…?"

"Bowden," Martin says, shaking the proffered hand without hesitation. "Martin Bowden, head of development here in London."

"Sort of my boss," Frankie says, putting a deliberate stress on the words that she hopes Boyd will heed_. Don't fuck about, big guy, not here and now, or you'll be in serious trouble later…_

"I see," Boyd says with a gravity that sounds sincere but almost certainly isn't. "Well, Mr Bowden, according to my watch it's gone quarter-to-six, so if you'll excuse us, the lady has somewhere to be."

"Sure," Martin says, with an easy smile. "Have a good night. See you tomorrow, Frances."

"Yeah," she says weakly as he moves off, "'bye, Martin."

She turns her head to look at Boyd. His expression is a perfect study in neutrality. She narrows her eyes, not trusting him a single inch. One dark eyebrow lifts a fraction, then settles again as he gives her a slow, deliberate wink that couldn't be any more wicked.

Oh, for…

-oOo-

"…fuck's sake," Boyd complains, sitting up straight and making a belated grab for the glass she has just accidentally upended over a fair proportion of her side of the crisp, clean white duvet cover. Pinot noir, dark as blood, absorbs rapidly into the cloth, spreading out as it goes to form an impressive stain. He shakes his head. "Well done, klutz."

"Oops," Frankie says, stretching languidly as she watches his vain attempts at damage-limitation, mildly hypnotised by the smooth movement of muscle under bare skin. "Do you still have Mrs Briggs twice a week?"

"Do my libido a huge favour and rephrase that," he instructs her, his attention still on the spill. "I don't think anyone's 'had' Mrs Briggs since the late 'sixties, including _Mr_ Briggs."

She laughs, an image of his formidable cleaning lady flitting through her mind. Their first – and only encounter – had been an unexpected morning meeting on the landing outside the bedroom door when Frankie, who, like the owner of the house, should by rights have been at work, but… wasn't… was caught _en route_ to the bathroom. The fact that she'd only been wearing one of Boyd's shirts in the face of Mrs Briggs's surprised, disapproving stare hadn't helped at _all_. Reaching for the bottle and finding it empty, she says, "It's your own fault, anyway. When you said I had somewhere to be, I _assumed_ you meant a fancy restaurant."

He favours her with a shark-like grin. "Ah, well you know what they say about 'assume', don't you, Frankie?"

She gives him a heavy shove with her shoulder. It doesn't have much effect, given the notable disparity in their overall size and weight. "Yeah, yeah. Smart arse."

As he stubbornly continues to attempt to mitigate the damage, Frankie allows herself a moment or two to glance round the room, searching for any significant changes she might have missed earlier. There are none. Same muted colours, same furnishings. The same rather good watercolour of cliffs and a stormy seascape above the closed-off fireplace, the same big, scuffed leather armchair in the corner of the room near the window; the same battered 'sixties Gibson guitar propped up next to it. The same large, untidy stack of books on the floor there, too, though she imagines the titles have changed. More than any other room in the house, this is Boyd's sanctuary, the comfortable, comforting place he retires to after every long, stressful day. The whisky bottle and the phone next to the bed haven't changed, either, she notices, though the former looks barely touched. He's not, never has been, a heavy drinker.

Grumbling to himself, Boyd gives up on the spill, subsides onto his side, half propped up on an elbow, and regards her with weary amusement. "I should've learned my lesson _last_ time. The very first time you stayed here, you managed to break the bloody shower."

She'd forgotten that. Leaning back against the untidy heap of pillows she's managed to accumulate, she offers him an unrepentant smirk. "Can't say you didn't know what you were letting yourself in for this time, _Pete_."

"Hm." He rolls over onto his back, turns his head enough to say, "Just try not to wake me up in the morning by kneeing me straight in the balls, eh?"

"That," Frankie points out, remembering the unfortunate incident in question, "was a complete accident, and it only happened once. _Once_."

"Once," Boyd tells her, "was quite enough, thank you. There's ordinary-clumsy, and then there's Frances-clumsy, which somehow manages to reach a whole other level. To think I knowingly put you in charge of tens of thousands of pounds' worth of delicate scientific equipment…"

She pounces on him, thoroughly enjoying the energetic resulting scuffle that ends the only way it was ever going to, with her firmly pinned beneath him. The weight and warmth of him are familiar, reassuring, and for a moment the last year simply disappears, wiped away by all the rapidly-surfacing memories of how things used to be. He stares down at her, gentle and amused, and she wonders why it took them so long to find their way back to each other.

Beautiful eyes. She noticed that very early on. Brown, like hers, but greener. Less chestnut, more hazel. She can remember – vividly – the first time she saw him. A tall, commanding presence at one of the coldest, bleakest, wettest crime scenes it had ever been her misfortune to attend, before or since. He'd looked taut and keen, the startling dark eyes looking mesmeric in the stubbled, chilled face. It had taken her roughly thirty-two seconds to discover that despite his good looks and his expensive suit the then-Detective Chief Inspector Peter Boyd had a sharp tongue, a will of iron, and a very good grasp of basic Anglo-Saxon. Less than eighteen months later she'd accepted the job he'd offered her with what was to become the CCU.

_I might just be in a little bit in love with you,_ she thinks as she runs the tips of her fingers lightly down his cheek and across the dense stubble of his beard, the force and clarity of the words coming as a complete surprise. It's not the time to say such a risky thing aloud, not yet, so Frankie settles for craning her neck to kiss him. It's enough. For now.

-oOo-

In contrast to the night before, the morning is crisp and dry, the slight sharp edge to the temperature hinting that autumn is well on its way. It'll be warmer later in the day, no doubt, once the sun has struggled high enough in the sky. For now, there's still a too-early nip in the air that requires much uninvited fiddling with the car's overly-complicated climate controls before Frankie's anything like happy. Boyd casts a disapproving frown or two in her direction as he drives but says nothing as she presses buttons and twists dials. He'll be even earlier than usual arriving at work, she knows, but for him that's no hardship. By the time she's had a quick shower, put on fresh clothes and navigated the vagaries of the London Underground, _she_ will reach her office just about on time.

She can still smell him on her skin. It's subtle, that musky, male scent, but it's there. Familiar and distinctive, she catches a heady trace of it every time she moves. She _definitely_ needs a shower. Should have accepted his sly invitation and had one at his house instead of doggedly snatching the extra few minutes under the duvet. Then, doing so would almost certainly have ended with them both being late for work.

"You busy this weekend?" he inquires, his tone determinedly casual.

"Yeah," Frankie says, crossing her legs at the ankles and pushing her cold hands even deeper into her jacket pockets. "I'm busy entertaining all my _other_ gentlemen friends." A beat. "What do _you_ think?"

"I think," he says, still nonchalant, "that we should go out for a drive. Maybe have lunch at some disgustingly quaint country pub."

"All right," she agrees, liking the idea. Simple pleasures. "Just not in that old wreck of yours."

"'Old wreck'?" Boyd echoes, scandalised. "That's the peak of 'fifties automotive engineering you're talking about."

"Bollocks. Give me a nice modern MX5 any day."

He shakes his head. "Sacrilege."

Grinning, Frankie uncrosses her ankles. "It may have been the car you desperately wanted when _you_ were a kid, Boyd, but for those of us who don't actually remember the Coronation – "

"Fuck _off_, Frankie," he interrupts, clearly outraged, "I was _two_. Stay at home on your own eating pizza and watching crap television all weekend, then. See if I bloody care."

She laughs, loud and unrestrained, and after a moment he laughs, too. A quick mutual glance, amused and affectionate, sets the seal on the moment. Emboldened, she says, "So we're really doing this, are we? You and me?"

"You want me to send you an official memo?"

"Tricky, given that I work for Hartmann now."

Boyd's answer is solemn. "I'll give you my business card."

"Ooh," she mocks. "Can I have your direct dial number, too?"

"Hm, not sure about _that_, Doctor Wharton. One step at a time."

She laughs again, as amused as she ever was by his obscure, dark sense of humour. Realising that they are not too far away from their destination now, she says, "You lot going to the White Hart tonight? Spence told me it's your new haunt."

"Yeah," he replies, slowing for the traffic lights ahead. "Unless something important crops up. Grace is insisting we need to do some team-building, and I'd rather go to the pub than pay out for everyone to spend a day playing Cowboys and Indians in the bloody woods, or whatever other complete bollocks HR are keen on at the moment."

"She's probably right, you know," Frankie tells him. The painful memories stir, but she valiantly ignores them to add, "You need to give her a chance, Pete. This new French girl of yours."

"So I've been told," he says, bringing the car to a smooth stop.

"Anyway," she continues, before the conversation becomes too melancholy, "I was thinking… if you're all going for a quick drink after work, maybe… well, maybe I could join you?"

Boyd turns his head to look at her, a slight frown creasing his brow. "You sure you're ready for that?"

"No," Frankie admits, "but the longer I leave it… It's not Stella's fault she's not Mel, is it? And Felici… Felix… wouldn't have joined the unit if I hadn't… done what I did, would she? Shit – _bad_ shit – happened, but it wasn't their fault."

"You've been talking to Grace," Boyd accuses without any asperity.

"Maybe a little," Frankie admits, thinking of several very long evening phone calls between Edinburgh and London. "On and off. She's right, though, isn't she?"

"She usually is, but don't ever tell her I said so."

"So, you're all right with it?" Frankie presses. "Me coming along?"

He frowns again. "Any reason why I shouldn't be?"

She wonders if he's being deliberately obtuse. "Well, you know… _us_."

An incredulous snort is followed by, "If you think _that's_ going to stay a secret for more than five sodding minutes with Sherlock-bloody-Foley around…"

"Hm," she says, as the car starts to move again. "Yeah, I take your point."

-oOo-

There's nothing remarkable about Frankie's day. She arrives on time for work, ploughs through all the emails and administrative crap that are an unfortunate but necessary part of her job, makes time to talk to Wrigley and examine his findings, then returns to the most exciting and potentially successful of the experiments that she, herself, is currently running. It's absorbing and interesting work, but there's a growing part of her that is beginning to dwell wistfully on the excitement and variety of her former career. Perhaps returning to forensics _is_ an option for the future, after all. Not to the CCU, of course, but there are plenty of other avenues to explore.

She doesn't think about Boyd much. It's not a conscious decision, she's just always been good at compartmentalising things. When he does cross her mind, it's with a kind of wry affection edged with mild excitement for the weekend ahead. He's a restless soul, rarely content to be sedentary, and, exactly like her, he's curious about most things in the world around him. Whatever they end up doing – besides the expected – it will be interesting, she has no doubt about that. Her thoughts don't go much further than that, at least not until she's heading out of the building at just after five with everyone else who's keen to start the weekend.

Getting to the White Hart is not difficult. In just a fraction over thirty minutes the District Line takes her to within easy walking distance, and despite the encroaching late-afternoon chill, Frankie dawdles most of the rest of the way, not wanting to arrive at the pub before her former colleagues. An earlier brief exchange of text messages – laconic on both sides – had confirmed that yes, the team would be there, but she's heard nothing since. The renewed silence doesn't bother her. She's just as independent and self-reliant as _he_ is, after all, and the idea of becoming one of those clingy, desperate women… no. Not going to happen. _Never_. Part of her suspects that's one of the reasons they get on so well. She doesn't need him, and Boyd knows it. Likes it, even.

Maybe it will work, maybe it won't. At least they'll know.

The silver Lexus is easy to spot, parked tight into the kerb a little way from the pub, Grace's car tucked up tight behind it. Frankie's pulse quickens, and her palms turn clammy. Stress. It'll be all right once the ice is broken. Of course it will.

_Where are you, Mel?_ she wonders. Her knowledge of Jewish beliefs about the afterlife is sketchy at best, limited mostly to commonly-held opinions, and as a scientist – one very well-acquainted with the mechanics of death and decay – Frankie has always tended to subscribe to the idea that death is synonymous with a complete absence of anything metaphysical. If she's right, then Mel is simply… gone. Nothing more than skin, bones and cartilage lying under the soil…

No. Don't think about that.

She'll always be with them. Always young, always smiling, always with her whole future still ahead of her, not cruelly stolen away by a mentally-ill woman who then took her own life, too. To think anything else is just too painful.

This is the right kind of letting go, Frankie tells herself as she walks towards the pub's traditional-looking main door. Celebrate the life that _was_ and be thankful for it, however brief it turned out to be.

-oOo-

In the end, it's easier than she expects. Easier to fall back into the same routine of banter and teasing, to sit next to Spencer and join in with the leg-pulling and the laughter. Boyd is being ribbed mercilessly for some loud explosion of temper earlier in the day, and he lets them do it, the way she remembers he often did once the working day was over and done. Good for team morale, that's what Grace had explained to them all once when they had been musing idly about the odd phenomenon, and Boyd knows it. There's a line that mustn't be stepped over, of course, but while no-one approaches it, he lets them have their fun with a grumpy resignation that Frankie knows is more than half-feigned. Felix stays on the edge of the group, not exactly disapproving, but stiff and uncomfortable, as if she is enduring rather than enjoying. Stella, who looks so young that it's difficult to believe she is a fully-fledged detective, seems shy and confused, but willing. The unworthy animosity Frankie half-expected to feel towards her never emerges.

Grace sits where she always sits, at Boyd's side, quietly bridging the gap between him and his subordinates. Of them all, Grace has known him the longest, and sometimes it still shows in the way she can negotiate the extremes of his temperament with such ease and precision. No-one – Frankie included – can face him down as successfully as Grace when his blood is up. Then, no-one else squabbles with him as much, either. There were rumours, plenty of them, about the true nature of their relationship, past and present, when Frankie was part of the unit. Still are, she imagines. Probably only Boyd and Grace themselves know how much truth there is, or ever has been, in any of them. Frankie's best guess is very little, but sometimes, just sometimes, she wonders…

"Frankie," Grace says, as if somehow able to sense the wandering direction of her thoughts, "it's time you told us about this new project of yours."

She groans and shakes her head. "Believe me, Grace, you don't want to know. You'd have to be a biochemist to find it even _remotely_ interesting."

"Frankie," Spencer informs Stella, "gets a nosebleed if she ever strays more than ten miles from a lab."

"Fuck off, Spence," Frankie retorts, as if all of the last year has just been a protracted dream, "I'm not the one who thinks you need a passport to cross the M25 boundary."

Time passes and the conversation winds backwards and forwards, never quite touching for too long on the past. Eventually, not long after Felix makes her excuses, wishes them all goodnight and departs, Frankie rises from her own seat and goes in search of the ladies' toilets. When she exits her chosen cubicle and moves to the sink to wash her hands, the outer door opens and she's joined by Grace, who greets her with a warm smile and, "Easier than you were expecting?"

"Yes," Frankie admits, forced to return the smile. She adds a rueful, "I suppose I should have listened to you months ago."

"Best to come to these things in your own time," Grace tells her. The clear blue eyes regard her with thoughtful curiosity. "And… everything else? Has that all been sorted out, too?"

Boyd, she thinks. He freely admitted the night before, after all, to having some kind of difficult private conversation with Grace about their… situation. She nods. "I think so. You talked to him, didn't you? Yesterday?"

"We're old friends, Frankie," is the wary reply.

"I know," she reassures. "I was going to thank you, that's all."

Grace looks surprised. Pleased, even. "There's no need. I'm just glad the pair of you've finally seen sense and sorted out your differences."

Shaking off her wet hands and turning her back on the sink, Frankie says, "It's early days."

"Of course." A discreet hesitation. "The two of you, though… you're better suited than most people realise."

"Yeah." Something makes her give a short, sharp laugh and add, "And just as likely as each other to screw the whole thing up."

"As a psychologist, I should tell you that negative thinking like that is counter-productive. As a friend," Grace smiles gently, "my advice would be to do whatever you can to look for the very best in each other, even in the very worst of moments. You're both good people, and you both deserve to be happy. Love each other, and when things get tough, hold on tight to each other. Make it work."

Almost embarrassed, Frankie leans back against the sink and nods. "We're certainly going to try."

"Good." A meaningful pause, then, "Get back out there, Frankie. Sit on his lap, if you have to, but make sure he knows there's no turning back. Not now."

She can't help laughing at the outrageous suggestion. "Oh, he'd love you for putting _that_ idea in my head."

"Subtlety," the older woman says, straight-faced, "is not Boyd's strong point. I think we both know that. Sometimes he needs a bit of help getting things through that thick skull of his."

"Yeah," Frankie says, straightening up, "well, when he has a coronary right in the middle of the pub, I'll quote you on that, Grace."

-oOo-

She doesn't sit on his lap. She does, however, take the vacant space next to him on the bench seat beneath the high window, and when Grace returns, they exchange a quick, knowing look that goes unnoticed by everyone else. They sit side-by-side with hardly any space between them until Grace announces that it's time she, too, headed off. Frankie casts a quick glance at Boyd, catching his eye. One eyebrow quirks just the tiniest fraction, posing a silent question, and she replies with an almost imperceptible nod. Accordingly, he picks up his glass, drains off the last inch of beer left in it, swallows and says, "We should go, too."

_We_. The defiant pronoun slams into the middle of the pentagon they are now forming around the small wooden table. Grace says nothing, does nothing, just keeps searching through her overly-large bag for her car keys. Stella says nothing – too new to have a voice – but there's an intense kind of fascination in the way her eyes flick from Boyd to Frankie and back. It's Spencer who lifts his head, looks across the table at them and says, "'We'?"

"Yeah," Frankie says, deciding that it's a make-or-break moment. She hooks her hand through the crook of Boyd's arm and says, "Missed your chance, sorry. Turns out I'm spoken for."

He looks, she thinks, faintly disgusted. Not because they are who they are, but because he's pretended to be cynical about romantic relationships for so long that it's taken root somewhere in him, the pretence becoming a reality. "Great," he mutters, "just great. Strike through another name in my little black book."

"I hate to break it to you, Spence," she tells him sweetly, "but I was never _in_ your little black book."

He grimaces. "Ouch."

"And that's you well-and-truly told," Boyd informs his subordinate, getting to his feet. Maintaining her grip on his arm, Frankie rises with him, resisting the urge to smirk at Spencer. There complete self-assurance in the way Boyd continues, "Team meeting, eight-thirty Monday morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, no exceptions."

Spencer shrugs, a show of complete indifference. "Whatever you say, boss."

Grace has located her car keys. To Stella, she says, "Are you staying for another drink, or do you want a lift?"

"Um…"

"He doesn't bite, you know," Frankie tells the CCU's newest recruit. "Spencer. Get him to buy you a drink and then tell you one of his long rambling tales about how he used to be a dancefloor legend."

"Thanks, Frankie," Spencer snips at her with a glare. A moment later, however, he looks at Stella and allows a gruff, "Same again…?"

They say their goodbyes and head out into the chilly evening air, Grace walking alongside them. It feels… strangely natural. Undramatic. Uncomplicated. They don't hurry along the pavement, even Boyd's long stride tempered to the moment. It's Grace who says, "She's not Mel, and she never will be, but she's one of us now."

"I like her," Frankie admits, and carefully doesn't add that she's not as sure about Felix.

They stop together by the two cars, and for a moment there's an awkward silence. Again, it's Grace who speaks first, her gaze penetrating as she says, "You're _ridiculously_ complicated people, the pair of you. You're going to fight – spectacularly – and there are going to be moments when you wonder what the hell it is you see in each other, but – "

"Grace," Boyd interrupts, his tone surprisingly mild, "it's time to surrender your parental responsibilities. We're all grown-up now. _Both_ of us."

"Cheeky bugger," she says, but she's smiling. "You remember the 'sixties every bit as well as _I_ do."

He snorts. "Yeah, well the less said about that the better."

"The long hair, the music, the – "

"Stop," Boyd orders as Frankie starts to grin.

" – marijuana…"

He straightens up to his full height and glowers down at both of them. "I am a respectable police officer – "

Two female voices give a simultaneous, "Ha!"

" – and as such," he says, guiding Frankie towards the passenger door of the Lexus, "I have _absolutely no idea_ what you're talking about, Grace. Go home. Do your bloody ironing, shag that crazy psychiatrist friend of yours, or something. I'll see you on Monday."

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," Grace confirms. She leans towards Frankie, gives her a brief but firm hug. "Don't be a stranger, Frankie."

"I won't," she murmurs, returning the hug and then escaping into the car before sentimentality gets the better of her. Closing the door, she doesn't hear the final words that pass between Boyd and Grace, but they part with the easy smiles of good friends who know each other very well indeed. Frankie puts her seatbelt on, waits for Boyd to join her in the car. When he does, she says, "'We'?"

"Yeah." It's blunt. Dismissive almost. Decision made, colours nailed to the mast.

"Okay." As he starts the car, Frankie asks, "So… your place, or mine?"

_\- the end -_


End file.
